


Space Monkey

by spookypower



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 11:37:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1303492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookypower/pseuds/spookypower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Artist thought he knew everything about art.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Space Monkey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [x31ttik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/x31ttik/gifts).



It burned.

It stung eyes; heat soon accompanying ash; hot blows gnashing your face; the agony stretched, blooming into bleeding that was fresh with wound from throbbing veins; decay melting from sweltering skin; the oh-so-gracing thoughts evading a panic stricken mind, delved into an empty cave spread into your chest, with nothing that lurks there – except all your nightmares and all specks of teenage angst, every insecurity and anxiety you’ve experienced.

In a way too descriptive and metaphoric way, The Artist infers to call the physical reactions he described from the emotion that bled into his brain with inky breaths: _fear._

Nothing was more frightening to The Artist than his blank canvas; it sat alight in ghostly white, almost as if the easel sat on a pedestal, regarding down at The Artist as if he was inferior _._

With dishevelled clothes and a puzzled look on his face, The Artist’s rolled up sleeves desiring to fall off and his whole being wanting to melt into nicotine kisses and the welcoming, crisp folds of his bed sheets in sheer nakedness; The Artist can only _glare._

A bigger question froths at his lips, the same question he always burdens himself with:

_What do I have to tell the world?_

Only that of rage, rage that complimented his years. Only time could allow stories to be shared, but of all this time passed, it seemed there were no stories to tell. Like they had all been lived, and told in every way it could’ve.

There must’ve been other ways; it was just a matter of, well, how to tell it? How to _paint_ it? How to encompass such emotion and pour enough soul onto the daunting canvas? He didn’t believe in such a notion, but it seemed everything in him wanted to melt into that canvas just so the blur of pain would end.

But The Artist couldn’t ever admit that.

He just didn’t believe in passion, or beauty – or love, even. What he believed in was a bed to sleep in, food to eat, and a life to live (a shitty life, but life nonetheless), and that was that. If he had it his way, he would’ve ended this stupid façade years ago and just lived off his parents’ goddamn inheritance for the rest of his life, but his friends absolutely insisted on pursuing his ‘talent’.

Its been so long since he could recall a memory in which he enjoyed his profession, the only ‘thing’ he’s come to know of himself, and in recent years it’s only ever become what one hopes their passion (if he could even call it that) never becomes… _A job_.

‘… _Merely something I am good at, not something I love to do.’_

‘ _It was only ever a job anyway, idiot. Who even enjoys doing measly shit like this?’_

The Artist sighs.

Outside of rent for both his studio and apartment, though, and the pricey bills, it was nice to have some of that inheritance money for the trips he took every so often. At least his art got him by slightly more, and he’s still the rich asshole he’s always acclaimed to be.

And he liked it that way. He liked life moving on the same old way; no interruptions, no interferences; with no stir in his schedule, the same books, the same cigarettes, the same meals, and the same cleanliness.

Perfect. Everything was perfect. No mess = no messy mind.

But even after reaching his age, he still felt like a part of him was missing.

He could never pinpoint what.

 

He did not want to know, and declined that idea.

 

\--

 

The Artist could barely remove his coat as he entered through the door before the gasping shrills of the closest woman in his life (he could almost even dare to call a sister – _almost_ ) started to form ulcers in his earholes.

“ _LEVI, darling!”_

He hated it when she did that.

The Artist sighs – Levi, sighs, and then he tilts his head a little to the ground, as if to nod in acknowledgement to his friends – Hange, the loud, madwoman – and Erwin, who gently smiled at his entry, and nodded back.

“You know, I always enter through that door the same exact time, every week, and somehow you still manage to castrate my damned ears each time. Do stop that, I beg,” Levi mutters, his icy glare burring into the reflection of Hange’s glasses, which dangled-near-hanging off the edge of her nose.

Levi orders his usual red wine as he sits down.

Hange laughs, her hand flaps like a fish-on-sand in a “Oh, _you_ ” fashion. Though she treated it that way, the three of them knew he was not joking in any manner or form, and she did this just to add to her little torment of Levi and his eternal despising of the world; the way he always has been. They could all agree to that.

“What’s happening in the monotonous life that is yours, dearest?” Says Hange to Levi.

“Working on a new piece,” Levi replies after a snicker. The snicker was not in response to her; it was in response to the fact he decided to lie. He wasn’t working on any damn ‘ _new piece_ ’. He would be, if he felt entirely capable of doing so.

“Do tell!” She exclaims – a little too enthusiastically, unfortunate to Levi’s liking, but he never really expects anything else from her. She was extremely passionate in all aspects of her life, and he despised it because he could never understand it.

“Just the usual, Hange,” He responds. Landscapes, landscapes, and more landscapes – what he did when he wasn’t inspired to do abstract ‘pieces of shit’.

“I do wish you’d do more portraits of people,” She says, sipping on her alcoholic beverage just as soon as Levi’s had arrived in a crystal glass in front of him, “Don’t get me wrong, your landscapes are lovely – but those portraits, they were your very best, I think.”

She refers to a dark time in Levi’s life, in which these portraits were paintings of a former relationship having taken a great toll on him, when his partner had passed, and all he could paint was his partner.

He hadn’t been back to his studio ever since the portrait series had been auctioned off to a gallery, but no one knew that.

Levi didn’t go to the funeral.

“I agree,” Erwin pitches in, his first words of the evening since Levi had arrived, “Not only the incredible detail, but it has something your other pieces seem to lack. You evoke a psychological impact, using colours one would not use commonly to encompass such negative feelings. Its genius.”

Levi quirks an eyebrow at him, an almost demeaning smirk on his face, “I’m serious, Levi. You know for Hange and I being the scientists of our little group, you’d think _you_ would be more of the unnecessarily analytical, philosophical one.”

“I’m sorry I’m not what you’d call _The Artist cliché_ and prefer my own _logical_ views than that of others, thank you,” Erwin chuckles lightly at that, as does Levi.

Then Levi sighs, again. His fingertips grace the glass of wine carefully, and he taps the glass of wine gently with each of those fingertips, as he remains thoughtful.

He couldn’t bring himself to say he missed painting those portraits, though he knew he did. He would lie to himself, because how is that a good time in anyone’s life? Having to rely on a poor profession that requires creative outlet to keep you solid-grounded after a death? Why couldn’t he just be a junkie instead? _‘I already attract that kind, may as well be one.’_

_‘Don’t be an ass.’_

He never saw much point in that, though. It really shouldn’t anger him that he was capable of a mentality that didn’t rely on artificial substances, but he couldn’t seem to help it, especially with the burdens he carried in his life. He could never find it in himself to end his life. Levi had been thoroughly tempted, but he found doing so would be insane, and of course out of his beliefs, rendering it in vein and revealing hypocrisy, and he’d rather live and deal with these so called ‘issues’ he seemed to have, than die and have anyone think any different of him. He would rather people thought of him as an asshole and true to himself, instead of as a coward, and deceased; left to rot like the garbage he thought he was, six feet underground.

He believed in sustaining human life, and staying true to one’s self and that it was important; in being an individual you must leave a mark, etcetera etcetera. Although, Levi did not feel human, in that sense, and that’s what being sick does to you, he assumed.

After all these Friday nights of booze, friends, and discussion, he never understood why, at these times, sitting at this very same table, that he felt triggered enough to seep into his black hole of anguish and misery. Each moment these would begin seemed eternities ago since the last. Those battles won, but the war still rages on. Levi believed the world was in a wordless war, each battle customised to the person it belonged to. The “War of Life”, he would refer to it as, the demand to exist, if you would even dare to name it that, life was life, after all.

 He supposed those were the only ‘philosophical’ beliefs he held.

Nevertheless, one thought could end a person’s life, he recalls. ‘ _One remark from someone who mattered enough.’_

The evening past in wicked blurs to him, and he watched the pair chat aimlessly and he would put in his usual impertinent comments every so often, as he usually does, but he resented being there at the time because all he wanted to do was go home, drink herbal tea, and sleep – in fact, he was getting other ideas of taking up his time before then, because all this pent-up stress and anger was not doing him any favours this fateful night.

He was looking for a release.

He knew what he had to do.

 

\--

 

Levi’s drunken stupor was accompanied by an uncomfortable haze; at first, he was chatting up a young transvestite – a boy with a blue wig touching his shoulders, wearing a long frock, eyelashes daintily flicking his way, his eyes matching that brilliant and unbelievably fake wig. The frock was also of wretched material, amiss with Aztec patterns of all sorts, a confusing sight. The dress was low cut in a V, so you could see his chest, olive skin glistening with his sweat.

The crimson boa the boy also sported that evening had also woven its way around the back of Levi’s neck, breath hot and livid as their mouths hovered over one another before their lips mashed together in feverous kisses, swapping between tongue and lip, moving too fast beyond any of their comprehension, acting on purely what was practiced in their past.

They barely even made it into the apartment before Levi’s coat had found solace on the wooden floor, his dress shirt being daintily removed with the boy’s delicate fingers, weaving their way across every button as their lips still moved harshly against each other.

A haze for them both, as a montage of moans and illicit touching was blurred across their vision, and then, Levi was suddenly kneeling in front of the cross-dressed stranger.

The dress, which had met the floor, was now gathered all the way up and beyond his waist, to show what was _obviously_ protruded through the fabric of bright red panties – the fancy, _lacy_ , lingerie kind of panties.

The boy was the real deal, platform heels and all; the leather boots towered all the way up to his thigh, and took far too long in their sexual frustration to remove, and probably would take just as long on a general day itself, considering the intricate lacing and how immensely _tight_ they were. Levi pondered if the young man did get up to this sort of thing everyday, dressing in woman’s clothing. He didn’t object it, of course. He found it intriguing and a bit of a turn-on, strangely.

His lips met the end of the boy’s length in such haste, followed by an obnoxiously loud moan from the lanky-man-in-a-dress when Levi’s tongue started doing its guilty work.

Sex, to Levi, was natural; though he wasn’t a fan of doing dirty actions like taking a stranger back to his home and sucking them off _regularly_ , he did realise that it was needed on occasion, and he couldn’t say that he didn’t enjoy it – because he did. Everybody needs to get off, and he’d rather partake in the act of doing so within the comfort of his own living room.

The stranger came in his mouth within a few minutes. Levi swallowed, not too eagerly, but he was feeling generous, and he was immensely glad, as the stranger would get his damn fingers out of his hair. Levi’s hair wasn’t long, but the guy was knotting it uncomfortably when he had grabbed it, which didn’t make any of it that much of a enjoyable experience for Levi. Though it wasn’t as horrible as he was normally accustomed to, and he was grateful for that.

Levi was pushed up onto his couch, managing not to stumble at all, even in darkness. He felt his pants being torn off his skin, which was relieving, and soon the stranger was returning the sexual favour.

Masturbating couldn’t really cut up to the feeling of what Levi was currently experiencing, and that did flash across his brain from time to time. Sexual acts were something he occasionally thought about, though he didn’t think much of it – it was a good way to release steam, though.

So, he waited. Breath heavy, eyes closed, his back on the cushions of the couch, neck exposed and an awkwardly accumulated amount of sweat on his face and bare chest, he let all the emotion build up within him, and he waited, and waited.

_Release_.

He climaxed, the evidence swallowed, the other man’s tongue still hovering over him.

Levi quivered, and a sense of relief washed over him. This was what he wanted.

Quiet from the noise, the calm after the storm. That’s what this sort of thing mostly achieved for him, and he liked to enjoy that peace; he did so with his eyes closed, catching up with his breath.

By this point, the stranger passed out, on the sofa across the room they could only faintly see in the darkness of Levi’s apartment.

 

The Artist cried himself to sleep that night.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday to the friend I gifted this too! (An early gift, haha, but expect more on your actual birthday).  
> I will be trying to update this as regularly as possible, as I've been very inspired by this idea and want to pursue with it. Please pester me to post chapters (unless I'm actually busy). Thanks for reading (and tolerating my hideous writing!)  
> Don't ever hesitate to comment and ask questions if you're unsure of something, or just to share your thoughts on what I could improve on, and such -- that is always appreciated.


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